On The Streets

This story is just a little something I made after a dream. The night of this dream I was texting a friend and she was making up a story, to witch I would have to write one back. So as the messages continued I became obsessed over what to write about. I must of been really into the idea because I then had a dream, of witch I rarely have, and the entire way through the dream I would stop and say..."This would make a great story! I have to tell her!" So I did and she loved it! She begged for more chapters. And so I made three. I am continuing these and more will be added. Basically, this story is about a girl, at the age of sixteen turning seventeen on a search for answers. She has lived a hard life but remains put together, but she is willing to go through what ever may tear her apart to regain what she once had.


2. Stares

Is that fried chicken or really good eggs? I rubbed my eyes with sweaty hands. Ben stands in the kitchen laughing at my hair, with a greasy spatula in his hand.

"What are you doing here? How'd you get in? And what are you making that smells great!" I laugh back at him as I get out of bed and slide into pink slippers stained with coffee. Dragging them into the kitchen and throwing my self into an old leather sofa in the corner, I start to tap my fingers in anxiety.

"I came through the back door. You need to get atleast two extra locks. You know how it can be around here. Wants some bacon?" He gives me his cool face, and the light from outside lights his white face into a second son. He shows me his burnt pan and the crispy bacon on top, untouched.

"Yes please!" I reply eagerly "And can I ask you something?" I looked at the plate on the rusted table in front of me tracing a circle on the edge with my pinky. He nodded and I looked at the back of his head. The streak of a scar left a hairless spot on his head. And I thought how to ask the question without making him upset.

"What happened with your friends after my brother... you know... disappeared. Why aren't you guys talking? I thought at first you where all just getting some space and think time." I hesitated several times.

Every time he'd turn his head his muscles and skin would contort molding the streak into many different squiggles. He looked at me from the corner and then looked into space trying to create and excuse. He rolled his eyes all around his face till he looked back at me with a pause of breath and then murmured.

"Things change."

With a loyal heart and a bothered face he turns back to the hissing stove. I wait a moment before asking again...

"But what actually happened?? Like what made you guys--"...

"Look I can't-- it's not-- you wouldn't understand if I told you. It's not for a girl of your age to know, anyway. I'm sorry! Don't ask again."

A moment of silence passed over us for maybe even longer than five minutes as he served me my bacon. And I felt guilty of pushing him. He never gets mad or mean like he had just done. It must of been serious. But I got stubborn with him and looked with defiance as I thought of what excuse to tell him to make him spit it out.

He was the weakest member of the group of guys. He was always pushed around and told what to do and I was the one he talked to about it. He was crazy and didn't care what others said or thought of him. But that hurt him more than it helped. I always offered him a hand to lift him off the ground, something he needed often. I finally broke the silence...

"Look I'm sixteen on the verge of seventeen with two jobs! I've been mugged three times and I was alone. You know what happened? They ran home after I kicked and punched the hell out of each and every one of them without a scratch. What is so bad that I, a girl one year younger than you! can't handle?"

I looked at him with opinionated independence and demanded an answer with my eyes. He hesitated and finally looked me in the eyes and with an 'I know I'll regret this later' look he spoke...

"When your birthday comes I'll tell you everything but for now it's to remain unknown. Sorry. Can you wait?"

I nodded in reply hesitantly, and looked out the window. The sun's rays scattered unevenly around the room as they passed through the plump drops on the glass.

"Did it rain last night?" I pondered on the history of last night.

"Rain?" he paused in confusion, "It was a damn thunder storm! Are you okay? You're all sweaty and you look like the cuban down the street did voodoo on you!"

I remembered the dream and the feeling. But it was gone now. I gave a thumbs up and then glared at the odd memory teething at my mind on the other side of the window.

How did I sleep through a storm?

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